As Little Might Be Thought
by Deborah Judge
Summary: The development of the relationship between Maglor and his foster-sons Elrond and Elros, from the sack of Sirion to the loss of the Silmarils. Finished. Rating for violence, angst.
1. Chapter 1

(For those who like to read the notes before the story, there is a fairly long note at the end of the second chapter)

Chapter 1

The cries of battle could be heard from the city as Maglor ran up the stairs. He knew, abstractly, that his soldiers were fighting, dying, killing, but he could not allow that to matter. All he could think of was the jewel in Elwing's hand that he had seen from the street below. He ran, crazed with a desire beyond passion, throwing open each door and window as he ran, madly, seeking that for which he had crossed the seas when the age was young.

Finally he found her, near the pinnacle of the tower, in a bedroom overlooking the sea. She stood by the large picture window, dressed all in white, with the Silmaril at her breast. Her eyes were cold, as if she had abandoned fear. He ran towards her, and she took one calm step up into the window-frame. "You will never have it," she said, both her pale hands clasping the Silmaril as she faced him. "Never." Then, as if reclining, she stepped backwards out the window.

Maglor followed her and leaned out to his brother who led the armies below. "Maedhros!" he shouted, "To the sea!"

But Maedhros and all the soldiers had stopped, for a moment, to watch in amazement as Elwing and her Silmaril flew across the sky. First she was a woman, falling helplessly to her death in the sea, the next a bird, whiter than the moon, lit with radiance brighter than the sun. She illuminated the night for a moment, and then was gone to the west.

The battle resumed, slowly. Both sides fought, as if they had forgotten how to do otherwise, knowing that the object of their victory was now forever lost. Maglor sat down on Elwing's bed with his face in his hands. He knew he ought to go to his brother's aid. At that moment, though, with the Silmaril gone, he found himself not caring how the battle ended. He thought about throwing himself after Elwing, knowing that for him there would be no miracle, only the sharp seaside rocks. Not for the first time he envied the doom of Men. Even if the vow of the sons of Feanor had not precluded any kind of escape, death would be no release. It would only bring him to the Halls of Mandos, where he would be forced to look on the faces of his victims for as long as the Valar deemed fit. Maglor knew that in his case, as in the case of his father, Mandos had no reason to be merciful.

The wail of a baby roused Maglor from his thoughts. He walked downstairs to one of the doors he had carelessly thrown open on his way up. Across the room, a small dark-haired child was struggling to escape, a rope in one hand and a howling red-faced infant in the other arm. The Peredhil. Maglor had heard of these strange half-human children, sons of Elwing and Earendil. He stepped quickly across the room. "Come back in," he said to the boy, "I won't hurt you."

The child looked up at him, his bright grey eyes flecked with red. "Morgoth take you!" he shouted, and pushed himself further out the window.

In his life Maglor had seem many children die. Some he had killed himself. He had to live with the memories, but he did not want there to be any more. He grabbed the boys, ignoring the child's curses and the baby's screams, and set them on the floor away from the window. 

The boy backed towards a corner, never loosening his grip on the silver-haired infant in his arms. He pulled out the knife he carried at his waist, barely missing the baby's ear.

"Put down the knife," Maglor said, trying to sound soothing. He willed himself to remember Feanor his father, before the fire consumed him, all those years ago in Valinor. "I don't want you to cut your brother."

"I'll cut off your head!" the boy screamed. "And may Mandos keep you until the end of Ea!" He moved towards the older Elf for a moment, and then stopped, remembering the baby in his arms. Unwilling to put down his brother or his knife, he called down further curses on Maglor, in the name of Eru Iluvatar and all the Valar.

Maglor could not move. The boy's eyes, so wide, so open, and yet so full of hate, these eyes called to him, transfixed him.

They reminded him of his own.

After a time Maedhros joined them. "The battle is over," he said, exhausted, barely caring.

Maglor turned an icy gaze on his older brother. For an age they had traveled together, but their adventures, if so they could be called, had not brought them together. Rather, each evil act they had shared only deepened the chasm between them.

The boy, who had never stopped his stream of curses, now turned to Maedhros: 

"Maedhros kinslayer! I Elrond son of Earendil curse you to eternal darkness!"

The boy seemed to grow taller, as if the anger of generations spoke through him.

Maedhros ignored him. "Do they remind you of anything?" he said to his brother.

Maglor nodded. He remembered the two young boys, Elwing's brothers, abandoned in the forest, never found. 

"These must be Elwing's sons," Maedhros continued. "Elrond andEldur?"

Elrond barely paused in his stream of curses. "Elros," he said. "My brother's name is Elros."

Maedhros barely acknowledged the name. "They would make excellent hostages," he said. "Perhaps I should take them?" 

Before Maglor was aware of what he was doing, his sword was out of his sheath and pointed at his brother's neck. "If you touch the boys I will kill you," he said. Elrond, shocked by Maglor's transformation, fell abruptly silent. Maglor turned towards him, hoping to catch a glimpse of approval in Elrond's sullen eyes. There was none.

Maedhros frowned, and pushed the sword away. If his brother was drawn to these children, so be it. They had known since Valinor that they would never have children of their own. Perhaps these half-breed children could bring a hope of a future to the last sons of Feanor.

"I will hate you forever," Elrond said solemnly.

Maglor nodded, accepting these words as his due. He did not know how long forever would last for a child Elrond's age, but as long as it would be, he was willing to wait. 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Maglor was still waiting when the sun rose the next morning.

Elros had quieted somewhat in the night, sucking on his brother's fingers. Elrond himself was also silent, a hostile glare substituting for the earlier stream of curses. All through the night the boys remained in their corner, huddled together behind Elrond's kitchen knife. If ever Maglor made a move, the knife would be in Elrond's hand. So Maglor sat, still as dawn broke, on the floor opposite the children.

"Are you hungry?" he asked at last.

"Go to Mandos," Elrond responded, tiredly.

"Can I bring you some food?" Maglor asked again.

The boy's hunger was apparent, as was his exhaustion, but he was unwilling to give Maglor the slightest consent. "Do as you will," he answered.

Maglor got up, slowly, so as not to startle the almost-sleeping baby, and ran downstairs to find food. He returned quickly with a loaf of bread and a banana, which he placed on the floor somewhat beyond Elrond's knife.

Elrond waited, not wanting to appear too eager or too grateful. After a time he took the banana, peeled it, and mashed it between his hands. Then with one finger he scooped out some of the pulp and gave it to his brother to suck.

The action was smooth, almost unconscious, as if Elrond had done this many times before. Maglor was astonished. He knew better than most what a Silmaril could do to a soul, but was this truly how Elwing's children had been nourished? He felt pity for the boys, and more for the woman who had flown away.

"You take good care of your brother," Maglor said.

Elrond nodded, tentatively. "I am going to be a teacher," he said, with the certainty only extreme youth can give.

"What kind of teacher?" Maglor asked, eager for the possibility of conversation.

"A Master," the boy responded.

From an adult such a statement would have been exceedingly prideful, but from this lonely, neglected child it seemed the bare truth of his life. Few indeed were those in these later days who bound themselves by Master's vows: to willingly teach anyone, of any race, who seeks their teaching, until the end of the age of the Firstborn in Middle Earth. Since the fall of Doriath the only Masters remaining on this side of the seas were Galadriel and Cirdan, and neither used the title openly. Maglor wondered how this doom had been laid, along with the care of an infant, on such a small child.

At that moment, though, all that mattered was the opening this gave Maglor. "Then you would teach me?" he asked.

Elrond nodded slowly, and fear replaced anger in his gaze. "What would you learn?" 

"Teach me how to feed him," Maglor asked. 

Elrond picked up his knife again, but instead of threatening with it he put it in his lap. "You are going to stay with us," he said, his voice expressionless.

"I want to care for you now that your mother and father are gone." Maglor desperately wanted this boy to approve of him, to forgive him, but he tried not to voice his longing. "May I?"

The boy looked down, abashed by his own helplessness. "Get a spoon and porridge from downstairs," he said.

It took a number of trips. First the spoon was too big, then too pointed, then the porridge was too dry. When everything was in order, Elrond slowly fed two spoonfuls to his brother. Then he turned to Maglor. "Now you try."

Maglor crawled hesitantly across the invisible boundary on the floor. He did not dare try to take Elros in his arms, but he held the spoon of porridge and brought it to the baby's lips. Elros took a mouthful, and immediately spit it in Maglor's face. Elrond's mouth twitched, but he did not laugh at Maglor's embarrassment. Maglor wiped his face on a sleeve and turned to Elrond. "Why aren't you killing me?" he asked. The knife was still in Elrond's lap and Maglor's own armor remained at the far side of the room.

"I can't take care of Elros by myself," Elrond said, his shame and contempt clearly audible. "And you wanted to learn from me."

"May I hold him?" Maglor asked.

Elrond bit his lower lip until blood came. Then, with visible pain, he released his brother into Maglor's arms.

Elros immediately began to cry, but quieted soon after as Maglor began to sing:

__

An si Tintalle Varda Oilosseo

Ve fanyar maryat Elentari ortane

Ar ilye tier undulave lumbule

Ar sindanoriello catia mornie

I falmalinnar imbe met, ar hisie

Untupa Calaciryo miri oiale

As the song went on, as the tears passed from Elros' face, they appeared in Elrond's eyes. He remembered his mother, always distant, now gone, and his father, on that day long ago when he had set sail across the sea. Despite all this Elf had done to him and his family, he knew they shared a longing, and a loss. He did not yet understand what loss Maglor had suffered, or for what he longed, but he could not help but respond to the pain they shared. As the song ended, he placed one small hand on Maglor's knee. 

__

Is it possible, then, Maglor thought, _that there is love left in this world for one such as I?_ He was grateful for the child's touch, and for the hope it implied.

"I still hate you," Elrond said, to make sure Maglor had not forgotten.

"Will you let me stay with you?" Maglor asked again.

"Until Mother comes back," Elrond said.

__

Until Elwing comes back, Maglor thought, _Until the stars become dim, and the light of the trees is forever lost. Until I no longer yearn for the Silmarils. _He knew he was bound to these boys, by the horrific beauty of his father's stones, and by the blood that had filled his hands in their absence. And, more, by this night of loss, and by the fear and anger in Elrond's eyes.

Maglor thought of his own father Feanor, in the short years before the Silmarils consumed him. His skill, his unexpected gentleness as he crafted. The pleasure he had taken in Maglor's first, childlike songs. The madness had come too soon, and the memories were barely remembered. This child would have better, if it took the remnants of Maglor's soul. 

__

until I stop needing you

until I stop loving you

forever.

"Until then."

***********

Notes:

Translation of Maglor's song:

__

For now the Kindler, Varda, from Mount Everwhite has lifted up her hands like clouds, and all paths are drowned deep in shadow; and out of a grey country darkness lies on the foaming waves between us, and mist covers the jewels of Calacirya for ever. 

Galadriel sings this song in _The Fellowship of the Ring_ . If it was actually written by Maglor, the greatest Noldor singer of the First Age, then Galadriel must have learned it from Elrond during their time together in the Second Age.

In Silmarillion 24 we are told that after Maglor and Maedhros sacked Sirion and drove Elwing into the sea, Maglor 'took pity on Elros and Elrond, and he cherished them, and love grew after between them, as little might be thought.' To me this is the strangest love to be found anywhere in Middle Earth, including all the Mary-Sues and bizarre slash pairings we perverse fanfic authors can come up with. So of course it endlessly fascinates me. In 'When I am Wise' and 'Naming the Stones' I have attempted to look at some of the consequences of this love for Elrond's life. Here I am finally facing head on the challenge of figuring out how this love could have developed, and what it could have been like.

I am finding this story unusually disturbing, even given my liking for dark themes. If you are with me, and would like me to continue, please let me know. It may be slow going. 

Please do not get on my case about bananas in Middle Earth. If they can have tobacco, they can have bananas. Not to mention tomatoes and corn.

I am extremely grateful to Legolas Greenleaf (the writer, not the character, greenleaf-legolas on this site, see my favorite authors list) for reading drafts, and for the many useful conversations that helped me get this story together. 


	3. Chapter 3

(Rating upped to PG-13 for violence)

Chapter 3

Less than a week later the ships of Gil-galad arrived.

Maglor was awakened from Elwing's bed by his brother's shouts from the door. Maedhros burst into the room, a sword in his left hand. "The High King," he shouted, breathless, "is coming. Ships fill the bay." Maglor was up and in armor in an instant. "Get the soldiers," he said. "I will secure the boys." 

Elrond was bent over Elros' crib, whispering something in Quenya. He looked up when Maglor came in, suddenly afraid. Maglor walked right by him to the window. He closed the metal shutters, locked them, and fastened securely the window-glass. Then he turned to Elrond. He wanted to explain, to give him some reassurance, but he found that he could think of nothing to say. So he left, and locked the bedroom door behind him.

Maglor's well-trained soldiers rode behind him in formation to the waterside. Maedhros was already there with his own soldiers, a grim expression on his face. At least fifty ships were coming, all armed and filled with Elven soldiers. They had an hour, at most, before the ships would arrive.

"We will have to burn the harbor," Maedhros said. Maglor nodded, and ordered a torch to be brought. Sirion was a new city, built mostly of wood, with dense houses for Elven merchants by the water. The fire spread quickly among them. Most of the residents escaped their burning homes, but not all. A woman leapt from the top of a burning house, her hair on fire. Her son followed soon after, calling for his mother.

As Maglor watched the flames escort the boy to Mandos he thought of other flames, and other children: at Alqualonde, at Doriath. He imagined Elrond's face on the boy as he fell to his death. _This is the path that I chose the day I spoke my vow_. And, for the third time in his life, Maglor watched a city burn by his hand.

"We have bought ourselves a night," he said to Maedhros.

Maedhros was silent, his face twisted in fury. Then he barked orders at his men, giving instructions for the evacuation of Sirion. Maglor yelled his own orders, and ran off to Elwing's house. 

By the time he returned it was dark, and the boys were asleep. He went to their room to fetch them, but was distracted by the broken window.

The glass was shattered, in pieces on the floor. Maglor picked up a shard and found that it was covered with blood. Even the bars of the metal shutters were bloody, as if someone had torn his hands trying to open them by force. _Someone_

Maglor knelt by Elrond's bed and moved the sheet that was covering him. The boy's hands were cut in great gashes, as were his legs. His hair was matted with blood, and blood mixed with tears on his pillow. Maglor tensed, and looked down in surprise to see his fingers had closed on the glass he held. Soon his own hand was bleeding, and his blood mixed with Elrond's on the floor.

He shook his hands free and fetched a damp cloth to clean Elrond's wounds before the long journey. He ran a damp finger along the cut on the boy's forehead. Not deep, only a scratch really. It should heal without problems. Elrond's breathing shifted, but he did not wake. There was a great deal of blood. Maglor found another gash, this time on the boy's chest. He had obviously used his entire body in a hopeless attempt to break through the window. This, too, Maglor cleaned as well as he could. Then he found his fingers returning to the boy's face. Such an unusual face, unique in all of Arda, long like an Elf's, yet rounded, with the softness of a man-child. To Maglor it was indescribably beautiful. He touched the boy's hair, dark and heavy beneath his hand. It had been so long, so many years, since Maglor had felt the touch of another Elf. He placed his fingers, gently, on the boy's chest. 

At that moment Elrond's eyes opened. All his earlier defiance was gone, leaving only fear in his moonlike eyes.

"Let me go to Gil-galad," he whispered.

"I can not," Maglor answered. _Do not ask me, sweet child_

"You said you would care for us," Elrond said, begging. 

Maglor thought of all the reasons Maedhros would give. While they had the boys as hostages they were safe from the vengance of Elwing's people, who would not risk the lives of the last heirs of Doriath. And, if Elwing herself were to return, perhaps she could be prevailed on by her people to exchange the Silmaril for her sons. And then he thought of the other reason: that he simply could not live without these boys. They gave a meaning to his life beyond destruction, beyond the madness that was continuing to possess him. Or they brought their own kind of madness. Either way, he could not let them go.

"I will care for you. Always. I will give my life for you if need be. But I will not be parted from you. I could not bear it."

The child did not struggle as Maglor took him into his arms. The blood loss had weakened him, or perhaps he had given up. He lifted up Elros as well, and brought the boys downstairs to the wagons that waited to take them to their new home. 

*******

Notes: 

Thank you to all my kind reviewers. You are keeping me writing, and I am very grateful. Please keep the reviews coming. Not all the chapters will be this dark, I promise.

Bows to Soledad for helping me get inside Maglor's head, and to greenleaf-legolas for reading a draft just in time.

For those who asked about Elrond and Elros being twins - it is not stated anywhere in the canon that they are, or even in Unfinished Tales. So I do not consider it binding on fanfic writers, and have gone with my understanding of Elrond's personality. 

If you are committed to the idea that they are twins, but want to enjoy the story anyway, here is a thought. Elves mature much slower than humans, reaching maturity at age 50. I have imagined that as half-Elves Elrond and Elros grow in fits and starts, sometimes at the human rate, sometimes at the much slower Elvish rate, sometimes slower than either. They will also reach maturity at age 50. Elrond is six years old at the beginning of the story, and has obviously matured at the human rate all that time. If you like, you can imagine that they actually were twins, and that Elros has been growing unusually slowly. 

I should also remind my readers, in case it isn't perfectly clear from the story, that any and all moral judgements made by the characters in this story or any other of mine are theirs and not mine.

A final deep bow to the Great Professor Tolkien, who created these wonderful and disturbing characters. I couldn't have made them up.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 

Elrond held Elros in his arms all the way to Himring. He made no sound, except to dutifully and emotionlessly ask for food when the baby cried. When Maglor tried to touch him he pulled away and wrapped himself around Elros as if the boy could protect him from a danger beyond words 

At Himring, there was a great deal of work to be done. Rooms had to be cleaned out, and set up. Elros had to be fed, and diapered, and taught. There were servants, of course, for these jobs, but somehow Elrond was always on hand, expressionless and silent, when they needed to be done. Maglor was busy most of the day, but at night he liked to sing to the boys, and tell them stories. Elrond at first ignored him, or tried to, but the stories pulled him in, forced him to listen even as he faced the wall with a scowl. After a few weeks he lost even that resistance. He especially liked it when Maglor told creation stories: the formation of the Dwarves by Aule, the Gift of Iluvatar to Men, the awakening of the Elves. They made him think of beginnings, of possibilities, of freedom. 

Then Elros spoke his first word: Father. He spoke it to Maglor. 

Elrond fled the room, and ran to the study. Maglor found him crouched in a closet behind the oldest books, whimpering noiselessly. Maglor brought him downstairs and put him to bed, singing the most comforting songs he could, but the tears did not stop. 

As the weeks and then months went on, Elros learned other words. He said "Let's sing" and "I love you" and "Why is Brother crying?" Maglor taught him basic songs, and then began to train him to use a small wooden practice sword. Elrond's sobbing began to disturb Elros at night, so Maglor let Elrond sleep in the study. Sometimes Elrond would lock himself in for days at a time, sneaking downstairs when no one was looking to find a little food. Alone in the study he would cry while reading, or read while crying, or simply sob while holding a book in his empty arms. 

After two years Morgoth attacked, and they had to move again. Maedhros went off in disguise to try to join Gil-galad's soldiers. Maglor mocked him for thinking an over-large one-handed Elf could pass unnoticed, and took the boys and the rest of his people to a refuge on the coast, far south of Gil-galad. There was much to do again in the move, and Elrond did as much as he could. But when the tumult settled down, he found that he had even less responsibility than he had before. Maglor, no longer a ruler, had more time to be a father. Elros learned to ride, to dance, and to fight with all the skill Maglor could teach. Elrond did some of his lessons for a time, and then once again lapsed into silence and tears. Maglor reached out to him at first, as often as he could, but learned after a while that he was not wanted. 

In the silence of the study Elrond dreamed, sometimes asleep, sometimes awake. First his dreams were only of violence. He remembered the knife he had once held in a lost moment of defiance. He thought how he could use it on all the people who betrayed his family, ending with himself. He remembered Maglor's touch on his chest. 'Never,' he thought, and did not know what it was that sickened him so. 

Sometimes he searched among the books for more stories, for someone else's memories. Some books were in Westron, which he could not understand, or in Quenya, which he understood somewhat but could not read without assistance. Others were of herb-lore or craft, and while he found them interesting they could not give him what he needed. Only a few were story-books that could tell him tales. He learned of Maglor's grandmother Miriel, who sent her soul to Mandos by her own will after birthing her son. He read about the creation of the Silmarils, and the genius of Maglor's father Feanor. Finally he read about Luthien and Beren, his own great-grandparents, and of their bravery and love. 

There was an especially large book, written in unusual letters. Could they be Khuzdul? The Dwarves did not teach their language to outsiders. Elrond liked to hold this book, to touch it. It reminded him that there were things he did not understand but could learn one day. It was a long time before he thought to open it. He flipped through the pages, understanding nothing but marveling at the letters. Finally he saw, about a third of the way through the book, some notes scribbled in Sindarin. A translation, it seemed. 

The notes were messy and difficult to understand, but they seemed to be on the creation of the Dwarves. He remembered that story, spoken in Maglor's musical voice, pulling his sullen face from the wall. Here it was, written in Maglor's hand. 

In this strange book Elrond read of Aule and his forming of the Dwarves from clay in the darkness in the beginning of days. How the new-created Dwarves cowered and begged for mercy from the one who had just given them life as he held above them a destroying hammer, weeping in shame at his creation. How Iluvatar had adopted them and allowed them, malformed, misshapen, to survive. 

__

So they are foster-children, Elrond thought, _like me._

He read further of the sleep of the Dwarves (or was it imprisonment?) for long ages, while the Elves awoke under starlight. Then he went on to read in amazement (although he knew it to be true) how the Dwarves revere Aule, and call him Father. _For who else do they have to love?_

Maglor's song drifted up the stairs. Perhaps he was singing to Elros, although the boy was long asleep. Elrond unlocked the door to the study and went downstairs to meet him. 

Maglor turned, astonished. "Tell me a story," Elrond said, before Maglor could speak. His voice shook and he sounded even younger than his eleven years. 

"What story would you like?" Maglor asked. His voice also trembled, as he feared of losing this one last chance that was given him. 

"Stories of the beginning," Elrond said. "All of them." 

Maglor nodded. Perhaps this child really would be a Master, if these stories could feed his broken heart. 

"I will tell you all the stories I know, and how to sing them. I will teach you Quenya, and Westron, and Proto-Elvish, and even what I have been able to decipher of Khuzdul, so you can find other stories on your own. I will teach you to write, and to compose songs, so you can make new stories of your own. Would you like that?" 

__

So this is what you offer me, Elrond thought, _to take the place of a mother, a father, a people, a home_. But he knew he could not live without it, and so he would take it and live. 

He sat with Maglor well into the night, speaking of languages. The next morning their lessons began. A few months later he sat on the balcony, as night fell, and began a song. 

One of his own. 

***********

Notes:

The story of the creation of the Dwarves is found in Silmarillion 2, 'Of Aule and Yavanna'. Remember, though, that in my version of Middle Earth Elrond wrote/compiled 'the Silmarillion', in the Second Age. And Maglor's Khuzdul is probably not that great. So I am NOT claiming that this is identical to the creation story Dwarves tell among themselves. 

Thanks to Honesty for pointing out the Maglor-Aule connection, way back in her review of 'Naming the Stones'. *Bows to insightful reviewer* 

Also many thanks to Soledad and greenleaf-legolas for draft reading and emotional support. 

As always, I am very grateful to all my loyal and kind reviewers. Keep up the good work! 

****


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Maglor came downstairs into the garden to find his brother already there, pacing. He had returned two days before but had refused to speak, yet, of his journeys. He said the night would come, perhaps tonight, when he would show what has become of Elvenkind. Maglor sat down on a bench and waited for Maedhros to speak to him.

"So", Maedhros said,"has the boy forgiven you yet?" His brooding eyes caught the light of the setting sun and reflected only harshness. Maglor knew the thirty years they had been apart, only a breath to an immortal, had brought nothing of happiness to his brother, so he was inclined to be patient. How different those years had been for him.

"Elros trains with me every day. He is going to be a great warrior, like his uncle," Maglor said. Maedhros did not smile. "Elrond has become learned in languages and lore. He is working on a book."

"But does he call you father?" Maedhros asked, his set mouth melting into a sneer. "Or Father Kinslayer, perhaps?"

"Silence!" Maglor shouted, his patience gone. He turned on his brother, seeking to return hurt for hurt. "And how fared you with Gil-galad's soldiers?" he asked, guessing the answer. Morgoth had not fallen, and Maedhros had returned alone.

"Gil-galad has no soldiers!" Maedhros said. "Gil-galad has only a troop of craven fugitives cowering on the Isle of Balar. For years I sought to rouse them, to bring them against Morgoth, for I remember the ancient oath, and Father, and _this,_" he shook the stump of his right hand in Maglor's face.

"Who fights, then?" Maglor asked. Surely there was some resistance, otherwise their refuge would have been long since overwhelmed.

"Ah, my brother, that is the question. The answer will be told, and I do not doubt your _sons,_" Maedhros emphasized the word, mocking, "will wish to hear it. Tonight, you will. All of you."

Suddenly Maedhros' face softened, as Elros came in from the field, still bearing his sword. He had grown tall and muscular, and moved graceful as a dancer. He reminded Maedhros of his father, all those years ago. "Brother," Maglor said, "I present to you my youngest son, Elros."

Elros beamed. "Uncle," he said, and stretched out his arms.

Maedhros embraced him and then stepped back, thinking. "Maglor tells me you are skilled in warfare."

Elros nodded. "Soon I will be at my majority and then I will go to fight Morgoth to regain the Silmarils for Father." 

Maedhros smiled appreciatively. Maglor had a son indeed, and Feanor a grandson. "And is your other son trained like this one?"

Maglor shook his head, resting one hand on Elros' shoulder. Elrond had refused to touch any weapon of war, for any purpose, since his nights of resistance at Sirion. Maglor did not blame him. Perhaps he feared what they would allow him to do. "Elrond is a scholar. He would perhaps advise an army well, for he remembers the great battles of the past." He could not keep pride from his voice, thinking of countless days spent with manuscripts. "But he is no warrior."

"Very well," said Maedhros. "Call the scholar and let him record the tale."

The young half-Elf came reluctantly from the study, and stood slightly farther from Maedhros than good manners would allow. He did not bow, and his voice was flat as he spoke the name. "Maedhros. Son of Feanor."

Maedhros inclined his head in response. "Elrond. Son of Earendil." He spoke the name with respect, and for that at least Elrond was grateful.

"You said you have a tale to tell," said Maglor. "Will you not tell it now?"

"When night falls," Maedhros answered.

They waited in silence, each in their own thoughts. Then, as the last rays of sunlight passed from the sky, a star appeared on the horizon.

"Behold," said Maedhros. There was an ache in his voice that Maglor recognized, and looking at the star he began to feel it as well. He remembered a far-off time in Valinor, and Feanor clasping a jewel brighter than starlight.

"Surely," said Maedhros, "that is a Silmaril that shines in the West." 

"Surely it is," said Maglor, his voice breaking. "And surely this is the tale you have come to tell, how a Silmaril came to be set in the heavens." _And shall we now wage war against the stars?_

A Silmaril, Elrond thought. Was this the brightness that his mother had kept and never revealed, for which she had fled all those years ago? "Tell me," he breathed. "Tell me!" 

Maedhros stepped forward, arms outstretched, as if bathed in light. "Hail Earendil brightest of angels above Middle Earth sent to Men! So the men sing, whose armies march against Morgoth. For they march not alone. With them are the hosts of the Vanyar, and the Noldor of Valinor, and even the Valar themselves come to war in their need. For they were summoned by a mariner, Earendil by name, and his wife Elwing, bearer of the Silmaril." Maglor remembered a light beyond words over the battle of Sirion, and closed his eyes. Elros took Maglor's hand in his own but did not turn from Maedhros as he spoke.

"The Vanyar who fight our battle for us say that Earendil and Elwing may not return. At night Earendil guides his ship through the heavens, a Silmaril on his brow. Elwing flies to meet him, with wings of white and silver-grey." At that moment, as if in response to Maedhros' words, a bird flew heavenward, shining, rose-stained in the sunset.

The four stood silently for a long moment. Elrond was the first to speak. "Father," he whispered. Then, louder, "Father!" He stepped forward on his toes, as if to embrace the star. "Father!"

Maglor could feel Maedhros' eyes on him, could hear his mocking voice: _your sons._ Elros still gripped his hand, but his eyes, too, were fixed on the star. These boys knew their father now, a father that shone brightly, and seemed to leave a place for Maglor that was dim indeed.

In the empty space in his heart the yearning returned, the only yearning that would never fade. He would climb into the heavens to take back the Silmaril, of fight Morgoth himself, for such was his vow, and such his desire. _They are hostages,_ he thought, _not sons. They shall remain with me until the Silmaril is returned_. It was at that moment that he looked again on Elrond's face.

Elrond had always been beautiful to him, even in the darkest moments of his childhood anger. But now his face shone with a radiance that Maglor had never before seen, never before imagined. His eyes were wide, and full of starlight. "Father," he whispered. "Mother. Father." With every whisper his eyes grew brighter, as if the light of the Silmaril shone in him and through him. Maglor was suddenly glad for the moment of happiness that had been given his son. It was little enough, after all the harm he had done. But something.

"If it is truly the Silmaril which we saw cast into the sea that rises again by the power of the Valar then let us be glad;" Maglor met Maedhros' eyes proudly, "for its glory is seen by many, and yet secure from all evil." And at that moment he was glad, although he knew he would never again touch the Silmaril that hung in the heavens, nor could he ever again hope that his children would call him Father with a whole heart.

Elros let go of Maglor's hand and stepped towards Maedhros, his eyes burning. "Yet not all the Silmarils of our house of Feanor share that fate. I will go to the armies of the Edain and join with them in the war against Morgoth. They will not turn me away for the blood of Men which runs in my veins and for the Elven-skill of my training. Perhaps, _Uncle,_" he emphasized the word, willing everyone to believe it, "they will take you also into their armies for my sake."

"And why do you wish this?" Maglor asked. He did not bother to disapprove, for Elros was to old to be prevented by Maglor from doing as he would.

"Long I believed myself son to a man who fled battle, and a woman who abandoned her children. Now that I know that my parents are the evening star and the bringers of aid to Middle Earth I would be a worthy son to them," he turned to Maglor, the love clear on his face, "and to the Father who raised me."

"No," Elrond whispered, turning away from the star at last. But he did not speak, for he knew his brother had long since ceased to listen to his stories. As he looked from one face to another he saw hope, relief, loyalty, determination, and for one brief moment, nothing of despair. He wondered at the strange changes he had seen worked by one short tale. If this tale could change him as well perhaps it could free his voice and his prayers, like those of his father, could one day be answered.

As Elros rode off with Maedhros months later Elrond watched from the balcony, singing songs of farewell. Songs that, perhaps, his father Earendil had once sung, if he only could remember them. And he called out his brother's name, the name his brother had chosen: Elros, son of Earendil, son of Maglor, youngest of the house of Feanor. 

*************

Notes:

Almost all the material in this chapter is from Silmarillion 24: Of the Voyage of Earendil and the War of Wrath.

The first line of Maedhros' speech ("Hail Earendil) is from the _Crist_ of Cynewulf, which was the inspiration for Tolkien's story of Earendil.

If you have not yet read 'Naming the Stones' (after slogging through 5 chapters of this) I suggest that you do. It looks at the same events from a somewhat different angle. This chapter is especially intended to go with chapter 2 of that story. 

For those of you who asked if Maedhros in this story is intended to be the same as Maedhros in 'What Flesh Remembers': yes.

Feedback, reviews, e-mails etc. continue to be gratefully appreciated. There are 1-3 more chapters to go.

I am very grateful to greenleaf-legolas, Soledad, Joan Milligan, and Oboe-wan for good advice, moral support, and nagging me to finish this cursed thing. I also bow to Le Chat Noir, whose excellent pieces about Maglor and Maedhros were very helpful to me in thinking through their characters. 


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The brothers sat in a darkened room, with one candle between them. 

"It is time for us to fulfil the oath," Maedhros said to Maglor.

Maglor fixed his eyes on the candle. Maedhros had returned from battle only days before. First he had spoken of Elros and of the glory he had in victory. The Men called him a leader now. But soon the conversation shifted, after the boys had retired. The Silmarils, taken from Morgoth's crown in his defeat, were in the hands of Eonwe, herald of Manwe, to be returned to Valinor.

"None can release us," Maedhros continued.

"If none can release us then indeed the Everlasting Darkness shall be our lot, whether we keep our oath or break it; but less evil shall we do in the breaking." 

Maedhros waited, and watched his brother's hands clench the table. "They will be gone over the sea, beyond our reach, into the hands of the Valar. We may never see them again." He kept his voice steady as Maglor's hands turned white. "I feel the yearning."

Maglor's face was as white as his hands. "How?"

"We will disguise ourselves and go into the camp of Eonwe. There need be no more deaths."

Maglor sighed, and closed his eyes. "No more deaths."

It was a simple matter, to cloak themselves in the dark. Or, rather, it would have been simple, had Elros not found them as they were leaving. 

"I will come with you," he said.

"You will not," Maglor replied, cutting off his brother's words.

"If you go into battle, Father," Elros insisted, "my place is at your side."

Maglor's face twisted into something Elros did not recognize. "I go on a madman's errand that I may not survive." _That I hope not to survive_, he thought, but it was not true, not anymore. "You and your brother are the last of the house of Feanor. You have had your battles, and your victory. In this you will not follow me."

"Then you will have to lock me up to prevent me," Elros said.

"So be it," Maglor answered. He called the guards that stood at his gates. They came quickly, armed. "Mandil. Linwe." They nodded. "Keep my son safe in his rooms until tomorrow morning."

"Father," Elros said, one last time.

Maglor turned away.

As they rode on Maglor thought he could see Elrond watching from the balcony, his eyes fixed on the distance.

Eonwe's camp was full of guards. They evaded one, and another, and soon they were close to the tent where the jewels were kept. "Halt!" a guard shouted. Maedhros' sword flashed. Soon the guards were upon them. Maglor raised his sword, and two guards fell dead.

"No more deaths!" Maglor spat.

"Your vow, brother," Maedhros answered.

They fought back to back, moving slowly into the tent. The Silmarils were in reach. Each brother could almost touch one. Then, a blast, and Eonwe himself appeared.

The brothers stood motionless, knowing themselves doomed. The herald of Manwe was beyond their skill to fight. But Eonwe did not move against them.

"I will not kill you," he said. "These gems have caused enough bloodshed. Take them, and begone."

No one moved.

"Begone!" Eonwe shouted.

Maedhros stepped forward and took a Silmaril in his left hand. His body trembled as he held it. Then, slowly, the light faded. Maedhros let out a cry, a wail of mourning and pain. He fled the room, not looking back, clutching the darkened Silmaril at his breast.

It seemed to Maglor like time had stood still, like all of eternity was compressed into the light of the one jewel that shone before him. He reached out his fingers to it, couched it gently, and then took it in his hands. Such radiance, such powerfor a moment Maglor felt himself back in Valinor, in the light of the two trees. He saw his father's smile. _Of all the sons_, he thought, _it has come to me_. Then, as he watched, the light of this one, also, began to fade.

"Go," Eonwe said again.

Maglor walked slowly towards the seashore.

The darkened Silmaril burned him, scorched his hand. But the pain of the burning was nothing like the pain of the darkness. He knew his brother, who had survived the torture of Morgoth, could not survive this pain, this emptiness. 

For the vow was broken. The Silmarils, though found, were lost. _And now Everlasting Darkness shall be our fate_ He remembered the words of his oath, and knew them to be true.

Maedhros could not survive. Maglor realized this, and then saw, with a shock, that he himself could.

__

The last of the house of Feanor. If his sons would take the Silmaril, the vow could be kept. In their innocent hands the light would return. The light of the Silmarils would return to the house of Feanor.

Was it for this that he had fostered them, all those years ago? Could he have foreseen that they would be the last hope of his house, and of his soul?

He thought of Elrond's eyes, so full of curiosity. Elrond had seen so much, in the far-off visions of a scholar, but never the raw beauty of a Silmaril. He imagined those eyes lit up, joyous. But instead of the light of a distant star, the light would be in his own hands, and he would call Father to the one who gave it to him.

Like Maglor had once. He remembered the jewel in his hands, and the brightness in his eyes. Then other memories came.

He remembered the warping of his brother's face, the fading of his open smile. He remembered the ships burning. Maedhros, once so kind. Alqualonde. Doriath. Sirion.

Maglor remembered Elrond in the window, and on the floor feeding bananas to his brother. _I will hate you forever._ The knife wielded against him. He could picture that knife turned, each child pointing it at the other. For so it would be.

So much death for this vow, for this jewel. Elros did not desire it, but would kill for it for Maglor's sake. Elrond did not want it, but the stories about it were always on his lips. Alqualonde. Doriath. Sirion.

What would he bring his sons with this gift, this heritage? The doom of the house of Feanor, and the soul-destruction of the Silmarils.

__

The last of the house of Feanor. 

He thought of the boy falling to his death in the burning of Sirion. To him, perhaps, he had been kinder.

The darkness burned him, tearing at his mind. He knew he would soon go mad from the pain. There was only one fulfillment of the vow, and it lay behind him.

__

They will not know, he thought. _No one will tell of the choice of the last of the sons of Feanor. You will be named kinslayer in the tales, and oathbreaker in your heart._

So be it.

He bent to the Silmaril, and kissed it. A tear fell upon it, reflecting starlight in a fleeting moment of brightness. Maglor stood, and lifted the Silmaril to his chest. Then, with one motion, he threw it heavenward. It hung in the sky, like a shadow of a star, beneath the light of Earendil. "Father," he heard a voice, perhaps his own. Then the darkened star fell, and sank soundlessly in the ocean.

He let out a cry, a cry that became a wail, a wail that became a song, a song that was nothing more than weeping. This was his doom and he would face it as bravely as he had tried to escape it. He took one step, and then another. Then he let the darkness take him away.

__

and thereafter he wandered ever upon the shores, singing in pain and regret beside the waves. For Maglor was mighty among the singers of old, named only after Daeron of Doriath; but he never came back among the people of the Elves.

*********

Notes:

This story has come to an end. There will be an epilogue to this story and to 'Naming the Stones', posted separately.

My stories 'When I am Wise' and 'Naming the Stones' continue this from the perspective of Elrond, and 'Stardust' by greenleaf-legolas (very recommended) continues it from the perspective of Elros.

The lines at the end of the chapter are from Silmarillion 24, as is most of the material for this chapter. The oath of the sons of Feanor is from Silamrillion 9. _They took an oath which none shall break, and none should take, by the name even of Iluvatar, calling the Everlasting Dark upon them if they kept it not._

Two notes for canon nitpickers:

We are told in Silmarillion 24 that none of the Elves of Beleriand fought in the War of Wrath. That's why I had to sneak Maedhros into the human armies. In the Silmarillion it looks like only the Valar and the Elves of Valinor fought against Morgoth, but in the Akallabeth and in the LOTR appendix we are told that the Edain fought on the side of the Valar.

There was actually another descendant of Feanor alive at this time - Celebrimbor son of Curufin, the future forger of the Rings of Power. Since he is not mentioned as taking part in any of the wars for the Silmarils, I have concluded that either Maedhros and Maglor were unaware of him, or that he had renounced the house of Feanor and its vow.

My deepest thanks to all my loyal reviewers, and to Soledad and greenleaf-legolas for support and discussions, and to Arwen Imladviel and the silmfics group for fact-checking.

I bow to the Great Professor Tolkien, and apologize for any misuse I have made of his work.

Finally, a bow to Loreena McKennit, whose song 'Dante's Prayer' is an endless source of inspiration:

__

Cast your eyes on the ocean

Cast your soul to the sea

When the dark night seems endless

Please remember me. 


End file.
